


Freak

by Ilovecastiel18



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-06-22 05:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19660882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilovecastiel18/pseuds/Ilovecastiel18
Summary: John gets shot on a case and may not survive. Sherlock freaks out, having a panic attack at the scene of the shooting and refusing to leave John’s side once he’s out of surgery and in the hospital. Donovan and Anderson continue their relentless bullying of Sherlock, and Lestrade, Mycroft, and John have had enough. Slight AU where Anderson is still an asshole after The Fall. Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family.





	1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, locations, etc. are the property of BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn’t mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch.

……….

Freak

Chapter 1

……….

After everything that happened with Eurus, things had gone back to normal for everybody involved. Or, at least, as normal as things got for the Holmes brothers and John Watson.

Mycroft had recovered and gone back to work within a couple of days. John and Rosie had moved back into Baker Street, renting the basement flat, 221C, so there would be two bedrooms, but spending most of their days upstairs in 221B. John thought it was nice, and very convenient, to live in the same building as Mrs. Hudson, because every time he needed to quickly hand Rosie off to someone, usually when Sherlock was dragging him along on a case, she was right there to help.

So, everything was back to the way it was before, with the exception of the glaring loss of Mary. John had stopped seeing his wife wherever he went, but that didn’t stop the grief that still overwhelmed him at times. If Sherlock ever found John lounging somewhere, crying or seeming to stare off into space, he was there for him. Instead of leaving him alone like he would have in the past, he would sit beside his grieving best friend and just be there for him, whether he needed a hug, or a hand to hold, or just someone to sit beside him and be there while he grieved for his departed wife.

And, of course, since everything was back to normal, the Baker Street Boys were taking cases. Sherlock was on a new case almost every day, whether from clients on his website (or, more likely, John’s blog) or Scotland Yard. But, he always took time to play with Rosie. John never thought that Sherlock would want to sit on the ground and play with his daughter. Sure, Sherlock loved Rosie, but his thought process was that Sherlock would be trying to teach her how to make deductions, or work on science experiments. Never in his wildest dreams did John think that Sherlock would sit on the ground and play with stuffed animals, rattles, and blocks, or read baby books to the little blonde-haired girl. John always had a smile on his face whenever he caught Sherlock playing with his goddaughter.

This was the scene that D.I. Greg Lestrade walked into on the day that everything went wrong. When he knocked, of course Mrs. Hudson let him in, cursing Sherlock for shooting the doorbell. He trudged up the stairs with a murder case file in his hand, hoping that Sherlock and John could help him like they always seemed to.

When he walked through the open door of 221B, he saw Sherlock sitting on the floor with baby Rosie, stacking blocks and making funny faces to make her laugh. John was sitting in his chair with the newspaper open in front of him, but instead of reading, he was watching his best friend and his daughter with a smile on his face.

Lestrade cleared his throat to make his presence known, then proceeded to explain the case that baffled him, and nearly killed John Watson.

……….

“Sherlock, WAIT!” Lestrade yelled after the consulting detective.

Sherlock had taken one look at the body and deduced that it was her brother-in-law that had killed her. According to Sherlock, the woman had found out that her brother-in-law was cheating on her sister, and was going to tell her about it. The brother-in-law found out about the plan and killed her before she could say anything.

Sherlock explained all of this as he quickly made his way out toward the road. Then he ran, John trailing behind him. Apparently, Sherlock knew where the brother-in-law would be.

Thankfully, Sherlock had pulled a stunt like this one too many times, and Mycroft had had a tracking device installed on his little brother’s phone. And Lestrade had access.

Cursing Sherlock and his awful impulsiveness, Lestrade pulled up the detective’s location on his phone and hopped into his car to follow him. Luckily, Lestrade had enough practice following Sherlock’s erratic movements that he didn’t have much trouble following him. When Sherlock suddenly stopped, however, Lestrade got a bad feeling in his gut.

When he rounded the corner, he saw something that he had always hoped he would never see: John Watson, lying awkwardly on the sidewalk with blood pooling under him. Lestrade, thanking his police training for not making him freeze, instantly called 999, dashing out of his police car toward where Sherlock was leaning over John.

Once he had explained everything to the operator and called some officers to the scene, Lestrade practically hurdled himself toward John and Sherlock, kneeling next to John’s head and feeling for a pulse. The bullet seemed to have missed John’s heart by barely an inch, but the doctor certainly had a perforated lung. Sherlock was standing a distance away, looking as if he was in shock.

“Sherlock! _Sherlock! SHERLOCK!”_ Lestrade yelled, trying to get the detective’s attention. When Sherlock turned and looked in his general direction, Lestrade figured that was as close as he was going to get to acknowledgement. “Bloody hell, mate, what happened?” Lestrade questioned.

For once, Sherlock seemed to be at a loss for words. “Um…well we…we ran here, the…the brother-in-law, according to my calculations, should have been in that pizza restaurant…” Sherlock motioned vaguely behind him. “When we showed up, he came out of that building…” Sherlock motioned toward an old, boarded-up dry cleaners on the opposite side of the street from the pizza place. “J-John had drawn his gun, so the guy shot him and ran off. I don’t…I don’t know what to do, Lestrade.” Sherlock explained. Lestrade could hear how emotion was constricting Sherlock’s throat.

Just then, the ambulance Lestrade had called came careening around the corner, sirens blaring. As the EMTs were working on John, Donovan and a few other officers showed up at the scene.

Donovan came up to Lestrade as he was watching John being lifted onto the gurney. “What happened?” she asked.

“John was shot by Sherlock’s suspect from the murder. Find out who the hell Sherlock was talking about and bring him in. Excuse me.”

Lestrade walked over to Sherlock, who was still staring at the blood puddle that was on the pavement, as the EMTs loaded John into the ambulance and drove away toward St. Bart’s.

“Sherlock, look at me.” Lestrade touched Sherlock’s arm lightly, trying to direct his attention onto him rather than the red stain on the cement. “Sherlock.” Lestrade whispered.

Sherlock’s hands were shaking, and when he finally looked at Lestrade, there were tears in his eyes, which were open wide in panic. His breathing was becoming more and more erratic, and Lestrade was worried that Sherlock was about to experience a full-blown panic attack.

“Okay, keep looking at me.” Lestrade unceremoniously grabbed one of Sherlock’s shaking hands and pressed it against his own chest, holding it there, and placed his other hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Breathe with me, Sherlock.” Lestrade took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he watched Sherlock struggle to match him. After a few more breaths, Sherlock’s breathing mostly evened out, even though a few tears had fallen from his eyes.

Just then, Donovan walked over to update Lestrade on what they had found, finding a crying Sherlock attempting to breathe in tandem with her boss.

“Oh look, the freak actually has emotions! Is that panic? Honestly never thought he could feel anything. Who would have thought that his ‘best friend’” Donovan made finger quotes around those words, “being shot would have caused Freak to panic? Interesting.”

“Alright, enough, Donovan! I’m sick of you and Anderson bullying Sherlock like this. Does it really seem like the right time to berate him about ‘not feeling anything,’ when he’s struggling to breathe because of what happened?” Lestrade yelled at the Detective Sergeant.

“But sir, he’s…” she started to argue.

“ _Donovan!_ Cut the shit! I don’t want to here you bullying Sherlock anymore, or else I’ll send you to Internal Affairs. No, enough!” he yelled when Donovan tried to cut him off. “I’m aware that he doesn’t work for Scotland Yard, but he still lives in the city, and I’m sure the bosses don’t want to here about a Detective Sergeant bullying a citizen and calling him a freak when his best friend was just shot.”

“Sir, I really don’t think…”

“For once, just shut your mouth and do your job!” Lestrade yelled.

Donovan gulped. “Right, um, I just came over here to update you that we found out who the brother-in-law is. I sent officers out to his residence and other places that he frequents.” She muttered.

“Good, let me know what they find. I’m going to drive Sherlock to the hospital.” Donovan walked away toward some other officers, keen to avoid her angry boss.

Lestrade turned back toward Sherlock, who was staring at his with a look that the Detective Inspector couldn’t quite place. “Right then, Sherlock.” Lestrade let go of Sherlock’s hand, that was still pressed against his chest, and his shoulder. “I’ll drive you to St. Bart’s.” The two men made their way over to Lestrade’s car. Sherlock slid into the passenger seat in silence, not wanting to see John like this but also wanting to be there for every second of his, hopeful, recovery.

As Lestrade slipped into the driver’s seat, he looked over at Sherlock, who was staring out of the windshield in silence. He started the car an pulled away from the scene, driving quickly but legally toward the tall hospital where they had all thought that Sherlock had killed himself all those years ago.

As he pulled up in front of the building, he looked at Sherlock again, seeing sadness in the detective’s eyes. Sherlock turned toward Lestrade then, opening his mouth to speak.

“Lestrade…”

“He’s gonna be fine, Sherlock. I promise, he’s gonna be fine.” Lestrade cut him off. “I’ll keep you updated on the investigation.”

“I was going to say thank you, Greg. For everything.” Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade patted Sherlock on the shoulder as the taller man reached for the door handle. “You’re welcome, Sherlock.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, locations, etc. are the property of BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn’t mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch.

……….

Freak

Chapter 2

……….

Sherlock felt like he had been waiting for an eternity to hear how John’s surgery had went. After he had explained to the nurse that John was his best friend, and he absolutely _must_ hear any news that they could give him (and, after he called Mycroft and had his older brother explain, none too gently, exactly what would happen if the nurses _didn’t_ inform Sherlock of everything that was happening), the nurse explained that the bullet had missed John’s heart, but had perforated his lung. Blood had been steadily pouring into one of John’s lungs the entire time that he had been lying on the sidewalk. They also explained that John had experienced a minor concussion when his head had hit the pavement, though that wasn’t something they were worried about.

So, Sherlock sat in the waiting room of St. Bart’s for hours, hoping that his best friend would pull through and everything would be alright again.

And, when he saw a surgeon come out of the operating room, covered in blood and looking grim, Sherlock almost fainted. The doctor explained to him that the had mended the bullet holes in John’s lung (the bullet went all the way through him, causing wounds on his front and back), but he was still in critical condition. John had lost a lot of blood and hadn’t been retaining enough oxygen while they were waiting for an ambulance.

So now, it was a waiting game. Waiting to see if John would ever wake up.

……….

Once the nurses had settled John into his room (a private one, once again thanks to Mycroft), Sherlock kept watch over his friend in a silent vigil for hours. He had found one of those hospital chairs that are padded but still incredibly uncomfortable, and had pulled it up next to John’s bed to wait. He sat in the chair, leaning forward with his elbows on the edge of the bed, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He only moved once, to go to the bathroom, before he returned to the exact same position as before.

A few visitors had come and gone. Molly, who had been told of the situation by Lestrade, had come to visit the room on her way home from work. Lestrade had come back, checking on John and Sherlock and informing the latter that they had caught the shooter and he was in custody. Mrs. Hudson had called repeatedly, after Sherlock had sent her a brief text and asked her to look after Rosie for a couple of days. Sherlock had only answered his landlady once, informing her that John was out of surgery but in critical condition, and informing her that she should not visit because Rosie should not see her father like this.

Finally, as Sherlock’s silent watch hit the 36-hour mark, Mycroft, of all people, strolled into the hospital room, the tip of his umbrella making a clicking sound as it hit the floor.

“Little brother.” Mycroft said as he walked in, by way of greeting.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse from not using it for so many hours.

“I was just coming to check on the good doctor, and you of course. Detective Inspector Lestrade called me. He said that you had a panic attack at the scene of the shooting, and he had to calm you down and regulate your breathing. He said you cried.” Mycroft exclaimed, coming to stand next to where Sherlock was sitting.

“Is there a question somewhere in there?” Sherlock muttered.

“No, I’m just informing you of what I know. I heard that the man who shot Dr. Watson was arrested.”

Sherlock stayed silent, refusing to waste his breath responding to any more of Mycroft’s statements. He expected Mycroft to make fun of him for crying and leave.

Therefore, he was shocked when Mycroft grabbed the other uncomfortable hospital chair in the room and pulled it up next to Sherlock, sitting down with a sigh.

“Are you alright, Sherlock?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock turned toward his older brother to assess exactly what had prompted such a question out of the British Government.

“Why do you care?” Sherlock snapped.

“You know that I’m always here for you, Sherlock. Never doubt that I care about you.” Mycroft replied with a sigh.

Sherlock scoffed, and returned to looking over John’s unconscious form, once again expecting Mycroft to leave.

Instead, Mycroft sat back in the chair and simply sat in silence with his hurting little brother.

……….

After about an hour of Mycroft sitting with Sherlock, something unexpected happened: Phillip Anderson walked into the room.

“Oh good, you’re here, Sherlock. Now I don’t have to try to read John’s stupid medical chart to update Lestrade about his condition, you can just tell me. Though honestly, I expected you to be off trying to find a new lacky, since this one is defective. Freak.”

Mycroft usually didn’t get involved in trivial matters, such as people calling his brother names, but he saw Sherlock flinch, visibly flinch, when Anderson insulted him. And that was something he wouldn’t stand for.

Mycroft abruptly stood from his chair, idly twirling his umbrella in his hand, and walked menacingly toward Anderson.

“And who might you be, exactly?” he asked, a dark look on his face.

“None of your business! Who’re you?” Anderson spat.

“Oh, no, no, that’s not how this works. Tell me who you are. Now.” Mycroft snapped.

“Um, Anderson, Phillip Anderson. I work forensics for D.I. Lestrade. I was just dropping some samples off to Molly Hooper, Lestrade asked me to check on John for him.” Anderson babbled.

“And who told you it was acceptable to insult Sherlock Holmes, Anderson?” Mycroft asked, advancing on the shorter man.

“Excuse me? Sherlock’s a freak, everyone insults him!” Anderson snapped, in a stupid attempt to appear unafraid.

“Do they? I know of at least five people who mildly enjoy Sherlock’s company, and rarely insult him.” Mycroft replied darkly.

“Well they don’t know anything! Sherlock thinks he’s so smart, but he’s just a bloody psychopath who gets off on murder!” Anderson practically yelled. Mycroft glanced over toward Sherlock, seeing that he was still sitting with his back to them, staring at John. “He doesn’t care about anyone but himself!”

“Anderson, I advise you to refrain from speaking aloud, or you will negatively impact the intelligence of every person in this hospital.” Mycroft retorted.

Anderson spluttered. “What are you implying!” he yelled.

“I’m implying, you moronic goldfish, that you’re a complete and utter idiot. If I ever hear of you insulting, or even speaking about, my brother again, I assure you that you will no longer be employed at New Scotland Yard. You may not even find yourself as a citizen of England anymore.” Mycroft growled.

“Your brother…wait, was that a threat?!” Anderson stammered.

“Yes, it was. And you would do well to remember it. Now I suggest you look frightened and scuttle.” Mycroft replied with a glare.

Anderson gapped at Mycroft for a moment before hurrying out of the room. Mycroft softly closed the door behind him before moving to sit back down next to Sherlock.

“How long has he been calling you ‘freak?’” Mycroft asked calmly.

Sherlock gave a dry laugh, refusing to turn and look at his brother. “He and Donovan have been calling me that since Lestrade started asking for my help.”

“Well, I think he will refrain from insulting you for a while now.” Mycroft replied.

Sherlock continued to stare at John until Mycroft thought he would never say anything else.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock looked over toward his brother with an odd look in his eyes.

“Thank you, Mycroft.” He muttered.

“I’ll always be there for you, brother mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t help giving having Mycroft say his own version of “Anderson, don’t talk out loud, you’ll lower the IQ of the whole street!” I hope you liked this chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, locations, etc. are the property of BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn’t mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch.

……….

Freak

Chapter 3

……….

It had been four months since John had been shot. He had made a full recovery, finished physical therapy, and now the boys were back to their regular routine of solving crimes between John’s shifts at the surgery.

Sherlock had been taking easy cases for months now, attempting to ease John back into their hectic lives. He had refused any case that he couldn’t solve from the flat, and John could tell that he was starting to lose his mind.

One day, John decided he needed to tell Sherlock to knock it off. He was sitting in his chair, reading the newspaper, while Sherlock was sitting in his own chair, reading a baby book to Rosie, who was fast asleep in Sherlock’s arms.

“Sherlock, we need to talk.” John whispered, folding the newspaper in his hands and setting it aside. He stood and gently took Rosie out of Sherlock’s arms, setting her in the playpen they had set up near the couch so she could sleep.

“What is it, John? Is your chest hurting? Do we need to go…” Sherlock started rambling.

“It’s none of that.” John cut him off with a wave of his hand, sitting back down in his chair. “Sherlock, I’m _fine._ You don’t need to tiptoe around me anymore. I’m fully recovered, look.” John moved his left arm around to show Sherlock that there was no tightness in his chest. “You can start taking real cases again. I’m not going to fall over if I leave the flat.”

“John…” Sherlock started to protest.

“I know you’re just worried about me, Sherlock. I appreciate that you care enough about me to risk your own sanity to keep me safe. But I’m _fine._ Please, for the love of God, find an interesting case. I’m starting to lose it.” John interjected.

“Fine, we can take a trip to Scotland Yard to see if Lestrade has anything for us. But, John, if I think you’re having trouble, or cannot take the strain, I will physically carry you back here and make you rest.” Sherlock retorted.

“Fine by me.” John muttered.

Sherlock stood from his chair and made his way over to the door, swinging his coat around his shoulders and tying his scarf around his neck.

“Sherlock…Rosie.” John sighed.

“I fully intended to stop by at Mrs. Hudson’s flat and ask her to keep an eye on her.” Sherlock grabbed one of the baby monitors off the coffee table in front of the couch, setting it in the playpen where Rosie was sleeping peacefully. He grabbed the other and swiftly made his way down the stairs to give it to Mrs. Hudson, John hurrying after him with his coat draped over his arm.

……….

As soon as Sherlock and John walked into Scotland Yard, everyone was staring at them like John might keel over and Sherlock might bust into tears. Clearly, Donovan had been spreading rumors about Sherlock’s panic attack, despite Lestrade’s warning. John knew about what had happened with Sherlock after he was shot, the Detective Inspector had filled him in when he was in the hospital and Sherlock had taken a rare break from sitting next to him to take a shower.

Clearly, however, Sherlock was not okay with everyone in Scotland Yard knowing, because he had a scowl on his face for their whole walk to Lestrade’s office.

As soon as they walked in, the Detective Inspector looked up with a guilty expression on his face.

“Lestrade, I suggest you get Donovan under control. It seems she has been spreading rumors around the office. The two of us have been enduring ridiculous stares since we walked in.” Sherlock snapped.

“Yeah, sorry about that, mate. Seems she didn’t take my warning seriously, and it’s not like it went well the first time one of my superiors found out about you.” Lestrade replied sheepishly.

“Well at least ask her to shut up, Lestrade. I refuse to keep helping you if I am to be treated like a weepy child by every officer who works here.” Sherlock bit back.

“Well you haven’t exactly been helping us much, Sherlock.” Lestrade replied. Sherlock gave him one of his best glares, and he rectified his statement. “I’ll ask her to stop. I’m sure she’s probably exaggerating anyway.”

“Good.” Sherlock sat in one of the chairs in front of Lestrade’s desk, John sitting in the other. “I honestly don’t even remember what happened. Most of it at least. I just remember John getting…and then you dropping me off at St. Bart’s. I remember thanking you, but I don’t remember for what.”

“You had a panic attack. You were hyperventilating and had tears in your eyes. I pulled you aside and helped you breathe. Donovan came over and insulted you and I yelled at her and told her to shut her mouth and do her job.” Lestrade explained.

“Oh.” Sherlock muttered.

“Well at least you were there to help, Lestrade. Since I was…incapacitated.” John thanked him.

“I wouldn’t have let him hyperventilate. I’d like to think I’m a better friend than that.” Lestrade replied. “Is there a particular reason you’re here?”

“Case. John says he’s ready for a real case, is there anything you have that is too far above your intelligence level that I can solve?” Sherlock replied.

“Glad to see that I’m appreciated.” Lestrade muttered. “I might have something; Donovan has the case file though.”

“Oh, wonderful.”

The trio trudged out of Lestrade’s office in silence, walking the short distance to Donovan’s desk, where the curly-haired woman was sitting hunched over the keyboard to her computer.

“Donovan, I need the case file for that one murder that we couldn’t solve – Everett, I think?” Lestrade barked when he reached her desk.

Donovan looked up and, seeing Sherlock, gave a short laugh. “Ah, the freak is back! Done weeping over John, are you? Finally back to being a thorn in our side?” she exclaimed.

“Honestly, Donovan, why do you have to insult him every single time you see him?” John questioned. “The first time I ever met you, you called him a freak and warned me to stay away from him. At that point, I’d known him for only an hour. Why did you feel the need to insult him to me?”

“Oh, don’t go all psychiatrist on me, Watson. Just because you have a therapist doesn’t mean I need one.” Donovan snapped.

Lestrade sighed.

“You know, Donovan, I’ll never understand why you have to be so rude all the time. Sherlock has done nothing to you.” John replied.

“The first time I met you, he pronounced to everyone at the crime scene that I was apparently sleeping with Anderson!” Donovan exclaimed.

“Yes, but that’s just the way he is. I’ve never heard him call you a name, unless he was sweeping other people in on the insult. He just lets you and Anderson bully him. I’m sick of it. I don’t know what happened to you to make you this way, but stop taking you anger out on Sherlock.” John snapped.

“Sherlock is a good man, Donovan. It’s time you realized it.” Lestrade piped up.

“Oh, so now I’m the problem? He’s a freak!” Donovan yelled.

“Alright, enough, Donovan. If you don’t start being nicer, I’ll have you transferred. Sherlock may not work for me, but he’s my friend and I’m sick of you being rude to him.” Lestrade snapped.

Donovan momentarily gapped at her boss like a fish out of water before thrusting the case file at Sherlock and turning back toward her computer.

John patted Sherlock on the shoulder as they made their way back to Lestrade’s office to look the case over.

……….

Later that day, after Sherlock had solved the case and John had taken Rosie down to his flat to sleep, Sherlock took a moment to reflect how Lestrade, Mycroft, and John had defended him against Donovan’s and Anderson’s insults. How they had stuck up for him even when he didn’t ask him to.

And Sherlock realized that he truly did have people that cared about him. And he was happier than he had been in a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know what came over me, but I absolutely love the scene where Lestrade places Sherlock’s hand on his chest and helps him breathe. I don’t know what that affected me so much (especially since I wrote it) but oh my God I love it.


End file.
